


In Passing

by debwalsh



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Captain America: The First Avenger, Gen, M/M, Mention of Abraham Erskine, Mention of God and miracles, Strategic Scientific Reserve, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debwalsh/pseuds/debwalsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve broke all the rules to get Bucky out of Hydra hands.  Now, back in England, his performance is being evaluated, which could mean the Howling Commandos continue their crusade against Hydra, or Steve could find himself on a slow boat back home, or on his way to military prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Passing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/gifts).
  * Inspired by [All The Angels and The Saints](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439302) by [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza). 



> Inspired by the wonderful new Speranza tale, [All the Angels and the Saints](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2439302). Set in the 1920s through to the present day, the early part of the story reminded me of Dorothy L. Sayers's Lord Peter Wimsey series. And then I just couldn't get the image of Peter and Steve talking about Erskine out of my mind.
> 
> All errors are my own. But I'd love comments and kudos if possible!
> 
> And if you haven't read it yet, go read Speranza's wonderful story!

Steve Rogers sat on the spare wooden bench in the hallway, absently rotating his cap in his hands. He felt the silky lining slip easily on his fingers, just the right sensation to be soothing but not distracting. 

Steve Rogers was worried. 

It was one thing to receive grudging acceptance from Colonel Phillips in the field, with 400 POWs at his back, it was quite another to face the top brass back here in London, all by his lonesome, at the SSR headquarters. This could go a number of ways, and a lot of those ways were either military prison, or a slow boat back to the States.

He didn’t want to go back to the USO. He didn’t want to be that dancing monkey any longer. He’d never wanted to be a dancing monkey, even if he’d sorta gotten good at it. He’d gotten a taste of the good he could do, the good he could _really_ do with the body that Doctor Erskine had given him, that God had gifted him, here, on the front line, and he didn’t want to give that up. There was still so much more he could do. 

There was so much more in God’s plan for him.

And there was Bucky, too. He’d come so far to find his best friend, broken every rule they’d thrown in his path to find him. He had a duty to Bucky, too. Even if they couldn’t be … what they were, to each other, back home, back before his miracle. The miracle he’d negotiated with God. He had a duty to keep Bucky safe, and it was already too late for Buck to claim a medical discharge and head home. The medics had recently fully cleared him for duty, surprised at how quickly Bucky had bounced back from his time in Hydra custody. If Steve left, to prison or worse, the USO circuit again, there wouldn’t be anyone here to make sure that Bucky slept, or ate, or took care of himself at all. So he had to stay in Europe, had to remain on active duty, had to command the Howling Commands. 

His men. _Their_ men, his and Bucky’s. Great guys, and great warriors. But a regular commander might not recognize them for what they were, might break them apart, and shunt them to the side. Might lose the war because of it.

No, Steve Rogers couldn’t go home, and he couldn’t go to prison. He had too much responsibility, owed too much for his miracles, had too much yet to do. He grimaced, took a deep breath and straightened his spine, then set his cap aside, and laced his fingers to pray.

He sat there, quietly moving his lips to the prayer he offered up, when he heard a clipped British voice comment, “Odd place for a _tete a tete_ with the Almighty, wouldn’t you say?”

Steve opened his eyes to see an older man with a thin, hawkish face, monocle stuck in his eye, and a beautifully tailored civilian suit, soft dove-gray gloves grasped in his hands. He stood in front of Steve, looking down at him with gentle, inquiring eyes.

“I’d say any place is a good place for a conversation with God, wouldn’t you?”

The man continued to look at him, and then smiled, a genuine smile of … delight? What could Steve do that would delight this man, so clearly a civilian from Britain’s upper crust? And what was he doing here, in the heart of SSR command?

“Well, perhaps, Captain Rogers. Perhaps. If you would, walk with me?” he invited, although Steve felt that there was a command layered in the cultured voice. He nodded, got to his feet, and dusted his trousers down. 

“You know my name. Any chance you’re gonna be sharing?” Steve asked, tucking his cap under his arm and extending his hand in greeting.

The man chuckled, nodding. “Peter Wimsey,” he replied, placing his hand firmly into Steve’s grip. He might look effete, but Steve could feel his grip, and it was firm and confident.

“Mr. Wimsey,” Steve acknowledged. “And I’m sorry, but I’m waiting –“

“For the grand high mucky mucks to pass judgment on you. Yes, well, that task fell to me, I’m afraid,” he replied, the smile falling away to reveal a serious expression, carefully blank and revealing nothing.

Steve felt his stomach fall away, felt the floor fall away, felt unmoored. Adrift. “Sir?”

“Come, walk with me,” Wimsey said again, gesturing toward the corridor beyond.

Frowning, Steve nodded and fell into step with Wimsey as he led him away from the conference room.

“So tell me, Captain Rogers. What brought you to Europe?”

“USO,” Steve answered simply. “Sir.”

“Came for the dancing girls, stayed for the war.”

“Only got here because of the dancing girls, always wanted do my bit for the war,” Steve clarified.

“Like killing Nazis?”

“Like doing what’s right. Don’t like killing anyone, but if that’s what it takes to secure the peace, to protect the people, that’s what I’ll do.”

Wimsey paused, pivoting on his well-made heel, and looked into Steve’s eyes for a long, silent moment. Then he smiled again. “So you take no pleasure in killing.”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Or blowing up factories or slave camps or weapons depots.”

“I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that’s pretty satisfying. Knowing those factories can’t produce any more munitions, can’t be used to hurt anyone else? Knowing that Hydra can’t enslave anyone else there? So, no sir, I do take pleasure in blowing up places and things that are evil.”

“And who decides what’s evil, Captain? Hmm?”

Steve hesitated. His own moral compass? The brass? God himself? Finally, he answered quietly, “I think anything or anyone that deliberately hurts another person, intentionally takes away someone else’s freedom. That’s evil.”

“Hmm.”

They’d come to the end of the hallway and found themselves at the busy crossroads at the entryway to the base. Wimsey glanced outside through the drawn-back blackout curtains; the day was gray, as it often was here in this part of England. Drizzly and damp, a seemingly permanent funk. Wimsey shook his head, and gestured toward another corridor. “Perhaps the canteen,” he said softly.

“I wouldn’t mind, er. Sir.”

“I understand that your metabolism runs fast and hot, a result of your, um metamorphosis,” Wimsey observed conversationally as they moved leisurely toward the canteen, the mess, ignoring the hurried activity that flowed and eddied around them. Steve wanted to be moving, wanted to be accomplishing something, even if it was just making sure Bucky ate. But he recognized that this was important. This conversation could determine his future, Bucky’s future, the Commandos’ future …

“Apparently so, sir.”

“Well, then, let’s get you some grub – that’s what you Yanks call it, ain’t it? Grub?”

“Sometimes. Food is good, too. Sir.”

Wimsey smiled again, that enigmatic smile that revealed nothing. “Food, then.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Do you always respect authority, Captain?” Wimsey asked suddenly, his step not faltering even as Steve felt himself about to trip and fall.

“Sir?”

“Follow orders, do what you’re told?” Wimsey stopped then and turned to look at Steve. 

And Steve felt this was a Moment. A moment when his answer was important. More important. But he had to be honest. He felt like this man would know if he lied or painted the truth in a different color.

“I respect authority, but I don’t follow it blindly, sir. If I see something that I feel is wrong, I’m not going to turn a blind eye. I have to do what’s right. I have to do what my conscience tells me to do. Sir.”

“Active fellow, your conscience?” Wimsey asked, pulling out his monocle and polishing it absently with a silk hankerchief. The fluid movement of the cloth was mesmerizing, rich jewel tones flowing around his fingers, around the lens. Incongruously, Steve had the urge to reach out and touch it, learn what silk felt like. He could imagine, but he didn’t _know_.

“Captain?” Wimsey prompted, and Steve shook himself minutely.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, you hear me, or yes, your conscience is an active fellow?”

“My conscience, sir. Bucky always said I had enough conscience for half of Brooklyn, and the other half was looking to clock my lights.”

“Bucky.”

“Sergeant Barnes, sir. My second in command. And my best friend.”

“Hmm. Yes, I’ve heard of Sergeant Barnes. Impressive record. Could’ve gone home on a medical discharge, but elected to stay. Because of you, I suppose?”

“Like I said, my best friend. We agreed we could do some good together. We’re a team.”

“He’s the reason you went behind enemy lines. Alone. Against orders. Captain America and his loyal sidekick, Bucky Barnes.”

“It’s not like that, sir. No sidekicks. Just teammates.”

“But wouldn’t you say you’re a hero, Captain Rogers? Captain America? You saved a lot of men that day. You’ve put a dent in the Nazi war machine.”

“Sir, I’m just a kid from Brooklyn. Just trying to do right by the people here.”

They’d arrived at the canteen, and Wimsey waved Steve on ahead of him. “I imagine you have a hard time getting enough to keep that metabolism satisfied. Order anything you want, on my account,” Wimsey informed him, handing him a brand new ration book. “I’ll have a cuppa, if you please.”

“Cuppa?”

“Cuppa tea. The British solution for everything,” he added with a smile. “I’ll grab a table, if that’s all right with you.”

“Sir. Yes, of course, sir.”

&&&

Steve balanced the tray and sidestepped the roiling flow of personnel hurrying and spinning through the canteen, barely making it to the table where Mr. Wimsey sat without spilling his tea. But he made it, and the tea was intact.

“Dreadful stuff, canteen tea. Supply lines aren’t what they were before the war,” he observed, blowing on the rippling surface of the brownish fluid in the paper cup. “Still, needs must.”

“Sir,” Steve agreed, sitting at attention while he waited for Wimsey to drink his tea. The nobleman – for that’s what Steve was convinced Wimsey was – glanced up and shook himself.

“Please, Captain Rogers – tuck in!”

Steve didn’t have to be told twice. Wimsey might complain about the provisions, but fact was, he’d eaten much worse – and a lot less – growing up in Brooklyn, and especially in the years since his Ma died and he’d struck out on his own with Bucky. Something with sausages and potatoes and something else, hot and filling and he was happy to have it. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was … but he was always hungry, and that was the truth.

He was enthusiastically chewing when Wimsey spoke up again.

“So, Abraham found his good man, eh?”

Steve swallowed, his mouth suddenly uncomfortably dry. “Sir?” he asked, his voice a ridiculous squeak.

“Abraham. Erskine. He was looking for one good man. Did he find him?”

Steve put down his utensils and considered his answer. “He said he had. Sir. He told me to remain a good man.”

“And do you? Are you?”

“I try. I try to be worthy of what’s been done for me.”

“ _For_ you, not _to_ you?”

“No, sir. This is a miracle,” he held his hands up like benediction. “I owe Doctor Erskine, I owe God for this miracle.”

“I suspect Abraham would find that combination amusing. Science and God. Not many people consider them bedfellows, strange or not.”

“Isn’t science the study of God’s creation? I might have had some doubts when I was younger. My way is clear now,” he said softly as he picked up his fork and resumed eating.

“Because of your miracle.”

“Because of the miracles I see every day, yeah. But yeah, that was a pretty big miracle. I wasn’t just sickly, sir. I wasn’t gonna live to see old age.”

“You still might not. War changes a man. If he’s lucky enough to survive it. Are you sure this is your miracle?”

“It’s my debt, sir. But more than that – I wanted this so I could contribute. I don’t like bullies.”

“Ah. There it is. That’s what Abraham saw.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how do you know Doctor Erskine?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I assisted his defection from the Germans. I’m what they call a spymaster, Captain.”

Steve set down his utensils again, and looked closely at Wimsey. 

“Yes, I cultivate a silly façade. It’s amazing how much people will ‘spill’ if they think you’re stupid.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth quirked. “Or touched in the head,” he agreed.

“Is that how people saw you, before this?” Wimsey asked, gesturing gently toward Steve’s body. 

Steve nodded. “After, too. Thought I was just some dumb lug,” he added with a grin.

Wimsey smiled in return, then turned grave. “It never hurts to let people underestimate your real worth, Captain. Unless of course we’re talking about promotions. Or fitness for duty.”

“Sir?”

“When you’re done, come back to the command center conference room. I’ll have a final answer for you then.”

&&&

Steve was still working on his meal when Buck wandered in, looking weary and beaten down like he often did these days. Not for the first time, Steve wondered if maybe he’d done Bucky a disservice by giving in to his own needs, and not insisting that Buck go home on that medical. And then Bucky spied him, smiled at him and waved, and Steve forgot the question. Bucky came over to join him and dropped into the chair across from him.

“Musta gone okay if you’re chowin’ down, Cap,” Bucky said, arching an eyebrow toward the food mounded on Steve’s plate.

“Brass wanted to talk over food, let me order whatever I wanted. I gotta go, though – decision’s comin’ down. How about you finish up for me, huh?”

Bucky was already poking around the plate with his fork, and Steve was gratified to note that Bucky actually looked hungry, looked interested in the food. He slid his tray across to Bucky. “Hate to see it go to waste. I’m too nervous to eat any more,” he told him sincerely, even though he could definitely have polished off the remainder.

“Seriously?” Bucky asked, fork poised in mid-air. Steve nodded once, decisively. Bucky grinned, and started shoveling food, pausing to groan appreciatively over the meat embedded in the potatoes. “Bless me, it’s not Spam.”

“Nah, some kinda sausages. Was good. Well, wish me luck,” Steve asked him, and the fingers of Bucky’s free hand reached out and touched the pads of Steve’s fingers, squeezing slightly as Bucky looked up encouragingly.

“Knock ‘em dead, Steve,” Bucky told him warmly, a smile trembling on his lips. Steve let his fingers give an answering pressure, nodded, and tore himself away.

&&&

“Lord Peter, we appreciate you making the trek down here on such short notice,” one of the brass was saying deferentially to Mr. Wimsey. _Lord_ Wimsey. Oh. Wow. Like sorta royalty?

He turned toward the hallway where Steve had slowed his pace, and smiled, warmly, genuinely. “And here’s the Captain, now,” he held out a hand gesturing Steve to come forward, and Steve warily closed the space to stand nearby.

“Captain,” greeted the general, American. “Good to have you on the team. You’ve been doing some good work out there. The Joint Chiefs are really pleased and look forward to more in the future. Oh, and there’s a medal waiting for you in Washington. You should speak with Colonel Phillips about arranging transport back Stateside.”

“Sir?” He glanced between the general and Wimsey, feeling like his confusion had to be painfully evident to anyone even glancing in his direction.

But Wimsey just turned toward him, lifted his hand gravely in salute. Steve responded in kind, and Wimsey smiled at him, saying softly, “Abraham would have been proud, Captain. You were his greatest achievement. Don’t let him down.”

“No sir, I won’t,” Steve promised fervently, feeling the tightness in his gut, in his chest, uncoil. 

They were going to let him stay.

And he could still make a difference. _They_ could. And they would. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://debwalsh.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
